BOGO Blog

"Insta-kink," I think. I think? No, I know. White lights, red lights, L.E.D. I would gladly throw open the curtains and pull of my shirt to press my breasts up against the window and pull my pants down below my ass and beg for it. But that is also because I am an exhibitionist. Which is an able foil to your voyeurism. Backstop? Baby, I got your backstop and I don't give a two-penny fuck about the neighbors or their forty year old teenaged friends. The need to write comes on like a red tide; suddenly hard to breathe, waters is murky, fish is dying! I love those sounds that escape you. Up above me thinking how badly I need that tongue that is half sticking out of your mouth. And now, for my second act: a goodbye reunion, a squeaky voice hollering, smouldering me and my butt, a call to reality. See you in bed, Daddy. I'll be on my belly, naked with legs akimbo.

Blimey

Cock, alright, just no knee. Unless? Nah. I mean, we can use knees, but let's stick with yours. We have before and we will again. It is always fun for a little while, spread open and wet and bouncing slightly, ears pricked (pun intended) for that sound you release when the nerve endings in your thigh finally convey the message to your brain who then sends a message to your lungs; the tiniest bit of a whimper, when I come for you, facing you, reminding your leg of what your whole self needs, kissing and caressing your face. Daddy, I need you, strung out real long and desperate-like. Whiny, even, but not too. And don't you need me, Daddy? Cue fake doe-eyes, affect an innocent bat of the eyelashes? Oh, please? For the length of cigarette or longer? "Suck Me While I ..." gets more comical each time and hotter, too; a true sit-com. Suck you while you check the tire pressure? You got it. Suck you while you balance the checkbook? Sure thing. Suck you while you configure the TiVo? Practically a cliche.

Soon we will set sail for our twelve day party and I will fucking wreck you. In a good way. Command your attention. Gently help you to prioritize. Walk around mostly naked. But mostly just walk around naked. Make porn. Watch the porn we just made during rounds II-IV. Catch some fish. Masturbate each other in the car. Re-learn the in's and out's. Make less puns. Cook for you. Go down that rabbit hole. Turn you on. Remind you of your masculinity. Remind you of my femininity. Switch roles. Switch positions. Find new venues. Savor old ones. Good old Tahoe. Best tent ever. Ejaculate flying everywhere. The sound of the ocean. Watch the boats line up in the ocean. Get fingered while leaning over the railing of the deck overlooking the ocean. Get videotaped doing that. Sit on your face. Be a rockstar. Get tied up. Get burned. Get bruised. Get tanked. Get more. Remember the cast net. Gaze at the stars. Get you so worked up. Get myself worked up. Sleep together. Shower together. Find your favorite candy. Treat friction burns. Feel the breeze. Breathe salty. Fuck at low tide and at high. Scout the birds and the slicks. Back the truck up. Visit. Catch up. Remember me? The fun one? The funny one? The one that loves to fuck in all ways? That loves your voice? Adores your face? The one who sees your every kindness? Can't set up her own rig? That will show you any part on demand? That is down for anything, any time at all? That needs you in a way that is fundamental? I am still her. I will be her again soon. I will always be her.

Knockout Mouse

I sit to write. Something debauched. Something really fucking hot. It's been some time since I've written like that. All I write anymore is love. Love, love, love. And latent abandonment and fear and insecurity and humanity. Bo-ring. I admit, it is difficult for me to divorce feelings of love and sexual desire. I'm just old-fashioned, I suppose.

Let's talk about anal sex and my love of it.

This is that for which they read, you know. Gotta give them what they want.

So it starts like this:

Let's talk about inherent things. Each day, I am older than I have ever been. And needier, too. Each day, I get a churning in my belly, like a hunger, but inherently pleasant. And then I think about you. I think about the ocean. I think about music and I think about the future. About your face. About the musculature that makes your shoulders cast inimitable shadows when you are on top of me and my knees are in your chest, fighting you off, in a way that is inherently ... not a struggle. And the way your hands are, like a schoolboy's hands. Vaguely cautious followed immediately by patently rapacious. And then deeper, still. Until we are both no place but that place. I am not sure if my eyes are closed but they aren't seeing. Brain is too busy preparing to parcel out plasma oxytocin; can't remember to pay the bills and the eyes get cut off. I think about fucking to raw. Nine day parties. No need for eyes. Anatomical. Astronomical. Anal.

So you're whispering to me and your cheek pressed to my head brushes my sweaty hair into my ear and; it tickles. But I barely notice, for hanging on your every word. You want me to do it? To be a good girl? My eyes are big. I am so completely focused on your words. To do exactly as you say. To move my hips just so. Just so you slip against and in me; just so. And they oblige. Never been more in touch with my own musculature. It is a beautiful machine. At no other time can I make my body do exactly what I want it to. To make my hips move slowly, in a figure out, in a free-fall of a free range of motion. Fluidly. Deliberately. Lo, you moan low. I know it is working. That you are feeling so good. Thank you, Anatomy. I love you, Muscles. Let's go.

And then I close my eyes. And I relax. And you take a deep breath, although I'm sure you don't realize it. There is a moment, a few moments, maybe three seconds. And we are nowhere and everywhere and time warp, worm hole, sleight of hand, magic wand, abracadabra, presto chango, goodbye space, time, and space-time. And I realize at some point shortly following those few seconds, that my ass is, effectively, on your lap. I can feel the bones of your pelvis poking into me. There we go. All the way in. Then, somewhere, the shot of a starting gun rings out and we are disco lights and techno music and athletes and gods and cocaine and digital and animals. We are Carnal Incarnate. And then we're switching between because we are so dirty and, at a time like this, we have such little regard for good hygiene. And because we are hedonists. Because we are lucky and young and violent and virile.

I hear my breasts before I feel them. And after I hear them, I remember that I feel them. Eraser nipples dragging against the sheet and/or towel and the undersides of my breasts drumming my rib cage, keeping the most lovely time. And I remember that I want you to, no need you to ... pay attention to them. And then I say this or that or something to that effect and then you are (ab)using them; like reins.

And this is now the point at which I can come on command. Just say the word and I will be moving and flexing internal parts that I never knew I could control and I am sure I am making sounds now, guttural sounds, like a porn star but genuine. And so you say the word. Not that I haven't already come many, many times. But now I can do it whenever you tell me to. When you tell me that you need me to. At your service. And you can fill me with whatever bodily fluid you feel needs to be released. I really do love it all.

And I don't know, maybe you've switched back to my ass now. Who can say? I feel sheepish in saying so, but there comes a point when I am coming so hard and so frequently and my parts are so numb and starting to get swollen and hot with friction that I can hardly tell which depths you are currently plumbing. It is another state of being altogether. There is sweat in eyes and fingers in mouths and mouths on shoulders and arms twisted up together and hands grasping at sheets and pushing off of walls and nails scratching on backs and we are completely entangled. Stuck like dogs. Say hello to the event horizon!

Welcome to Pleasure Inherent. Licking your semen off my lips and my own breasts in T minus 10.

Inherently Sincere,

Old-Fashioned and Cock-Struck

pink-eyed porcupine pool rat

What happened, to all my posts, about beachbliss, happiness, warmth, nearness, dearness, closeness. "The Human Experience" godmotherfuckdamn I hate that phrase. So presumptuous. I am unique! Alone! Ubiquitous. I am thoroughly modern, en vogue phone and car and shades and conditioned air and job and kids and life, look, smell, curl of a lip, flip on the hair, sick on the inside but happy on the out; a real human experience. Scorn, shame, opportunity knocking. Souring, sleepy, slurpy, slick. Like selling ice to eskimos? No, like ice on the beach. Aww, shut up, you big baby, you big orgasm-needing baby!

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Why do I write? It is all I have. He stonewalls, I falter, doubled over in disbelief, sharp grief like you wouldn't believe, acute, like an anvil in the sternum but worse somehow and angry in equal measure, understanding is my only medicine and he will not fill it. He shuts the door. He leaves questions, legitimate fucking questions, heavy hanging in the air, like smoke, like a pall, like something Poe would write, and much better than I, because his mind was clearer, but not less morbid. How long can we agree to just let crazy dissipate? And does it really ever? Or does it just settle, like dust, spiders under a rug, swept with a willow cob broom. He thinks so little of me. And then I think so little of myself. And at what point do we intervene? Do we say, you know, this is really getting out of hand, this is damaging and a waste of energy, let's be civilized, figure this out, because we are two people clearly made for each other, imminently compatible in every conceivable way, this is just silly, immature fears, come on, let's be grown-ups? How many quicks do we have to bite down to? Even our crazies complement, I just fear to our detriment. But he don't fear, I don't think, can't tell if he cares even, that he fucks me up so, that I only respect myself only to the degree that I am honest and just and kind, and that when he, he of all people, can't see it, doesn't love it, won't value it or trust it ... what then? Then I am looking at the world downside up, can't hear anything from anyone, like being under water or hearing a soothing female radio voice from speakers filtered through a screened door, that all becomes trivial. That I can't do even the simplest things, because the only thing is in jeopardy. You suck, man, because I love you and only you. Fuck you for not seeing it and fuck me for not holding your eyes open. Still, though. We are quite the couple.

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?

The guilt of being broken is breaking, all mental, stupid, wasteful, an endless negative feedback loop, ourobouro for real. Catherine Zeta Jones Douglas is crazy bitch but rich, and I'm neither, everyone has a thing, right? Sutures, supplant, supplicant, and I'm using that word right, right? Look at all these rights, right?, left with an aching need for validation of some sort, what we're all looking for, yes? Yes. Compulsive thinking, my psychiatrist said it is actually good for me, helps me be the guilt-ridden, hyperachiever that I am; but I have to admit: I'm not too sure about those types, people who delve into the psyche, now medicate! Wish mine would, but no, I don't need a mood stabilizer, because I'm not manic or depressive, no uppers or downers for me, I'm certifiably fine, just in touch with my existential side, and maybe a hair too smart but whaddaygonndo. Pay another co-pay to learn that I'm well-adjusted, just everyone around me is mad?? Ha ha, you fell for it, insurance don't come with no meaningful mental health benefits! I once had a boyfriend who said I was ultra-sane and hyper-rational, which sounds like a fair characterization, but fuck 'im, you know, because I cannot love someone who cannot love my crazy, let alone not see it. And I can't pay a shrink on the same basis. And if being a little bent is what has kept me so straight all these years? Fuck that ideology, too, because, let's face it: this world has enough ideology. My man is good and he takes care of me when I'm crazy, and if I'm crazy, he is probably doing double duty. But I'm duty-free, like a commodity. Silliness, all of it.

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I don't like: pens that are too thin, keyboards that are virtual, fevers, the high cost of modern beauty, work, semantics, pressure and more things, too. Oh yeah ... rice cakes, either. I hear their cries like a phantom limb and I am never not a mother. But I am the child now, who needs taking care of, looked after, attended to. It isn't hard for me to switch roles; I am due. To suffer so bad you don't even remember that you're suffering softens the blackened hole where the heart should be of even the most hardened surgeon. I'm sure there's a diagnosis for it, consult your pocket DSM. Or whatever. I'm tired. I miss my mom. I wish I could have things my way. I wish I didn't have to grow up. Some day, I will have all of the art hanged and pictures framed, but for now, we make due. Funny pair we make, us two, accelerated and arrested. But I never minded or even thought about it much, because we fucking catalyze when we're together, equation successfully balanced. Crazy friends are good and crazy husbands are bad, and I wonder if I can call in sick? I never liked easter too much anyway, except for the weather and the lighter-later nights and its proximity to summer. Be glad when this is all over. See you on the other side, Digitalia.

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My, some gall you have! (and which I won't)

Content? Blogger, you play fast and loose with that word. Oh, maybe you meant "content." Fast(ing) all the same, but thanks for asking, yes, content just hungry. Gravid men, can you imagine? Judgemental fuckers, and I have a good one, man and imagination. Shakey shakey now, sit up straight Brain, don't slouch, because Depeche Mode starting to sound like an endlessly goosebumped rump romp, like a fucking prayer, like christ can we get to summer already, or whatever season it will be when I'm normal and you're neutered? Sure, Uncle Sam, help yourself! Shrinking, maybe, but not a violet, because I am not shy about what I need. What I need: him, to live for a long time, their kisses and messes, sand, a baritone filtered through an old screened door, to make indelible to my mind those fucking perfect imperfections in his skin that make him him, each vampirish tooth, each soft breath, each cut finger, every single last orgasm. Spiral down, regress, pathetic puppy, but I stand ready to defend because this is me: a woman in love with a man, completely, and I could be worse things, remember, like broken for real and ever. Yours in Happy Bondage, Girl who shines right through

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